


Future Perfect

by hapakitsune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, First Meetings, M/M, NHL All-Star Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Selanne is quiet for a moment or so before he digs his elbow into Paul’s ribs. He leans down, mouth close to Paul’s ear, and says, “I’m standing next to Chris Chelios.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write about the first time Paul and Teemu met for a while now. Thanks to C for looking it over at 3 a.m. and to anyone I asked for help along the way. As always, I'm sorry.

Paul stands in the tunnel, heart pumping, and bounces up and down in his skates. He stares at the back of Selanne’s jersey, listening to the crowd cheer outside. The goalies have already skated out, as have most of the defensemen. The usher gestures Selanne out onto the ice and he goes, lighting up in the spotlights. Paul’s hands are sweating. He shakes them in his gloves; he’s starting tonight, playing on _Wayne Gretzky_ ’s wing. It might be just an exhibition, but he’s read Gretzky thinks highly of him. He needs to live up to that praise. 

The usher says, “Paul,” and waves him out. Paul’s gaze darts to the cameras, then away, focusing on that distant number eight. Then he’s skating out and smiling, _beaming_ , and he’s so distracted by the roaring of the crowd that he almost bumps into Selanne. 

“Sorry,” he says, straightening up. Selanne gives him a small, sly smile. They had talked briefly during the super skills competition, exchanging pleasantries and commentary on their teammates. Selanne was funny, a little dry like Paul himself. Paul liked him, liked how easy it was to talk to him. Selanne teased him for how bad he did at the accuracy contest, and Paul shook his head and said at least he did better than when he’d practiced it back in Anaheim. Back at the hotel, Selanne had invited Paul out, but Paul declined. They had a game the next day, after all. 

“It’s the _All-Star Game_ ,” Selanne had said, laughing. “Everyone is hungover. I hear Cujo was still drunk last time.”

“Thank you, but no,” Paul said firmly, and Selanne had shrugged, tossing a “Your loss,” over his shoulder as he turned away. Paul watched him through the peephole of his hotel room until he disappeared out of view, wondering if he was only being polite or if he was being truly friendly. 

Now, Selanne is quiet for a moment or so before he digs his elbow into Paul’s ribs. He leans down, mouth close to Paul’s ear, and says, “I’m standing next to Chris Chelios.”

Paul laughs despite himself and glances up at him. “Yeah, you are.”

The skin around Selanne’s pale eyes is wrinkled with amusement. “And here comes Peter Forsberg,” he says. “What a player. Even if he’s Swedish.”

Later, Paul will relate this to Peter while they lace up their skates in the Colorado dressing room. Peter will laugh and says that’s fine talk coming from someone with a Swedish flag tattooed on his leg and then Teemu feels the need to defend himself by protesting that the tattoo artist got it all wrong. Paul will grin at Teemu, who looks comically betrayed, and for a moment Teemu’s expression will soften. Paul will quickly look away and pretend that his laces have come loose. Teemu will do him the favor of pretending to believe him.

Now, Paul just smiles and says, “He’s incredible.”

It’s Selanne’s third All-Star Game, but he’s as excited as if it were his first. He bangs his stick on the ice, cheers players, nudges Paul to compare thoughts on Larry Murphy, Sergei Fedrov, Jaromir Jagr. Paul agrees with him nearly every time: yes, he’s amazing, he’s incredible, he’s spectacular. They both go giddy when Lemieux glides out, his long, distinctive strides recognizable even in the low light. 

“He’s a legend,” Selanne hisses. “Look at him.”

“Do you think he’d give us his autograph?” Paul asks, and Selanne bursts into laughter, head falling back. One of the roving spotlights catches on his profile, setting his features aglow. Paul’s heart leaps up; he’s caught on the golden light of Selanne’s face and the arc of his throat, vulnerable and delicate. He could dream about that curve, he knows, imagining his face pressed to it to breathe in whatever it was that made Selanne so suddenly vibrant. Selanne bumps shoulders with him, smiles, says, “Good luck out there,” and Paul comes back to himself in time to skate back to the bench for his helmet. 

It’s one of the oddest games Paul has ever taken part in. He would compare it to pick-up hockey, but even pick-up hockey is more – not competitive, exactly, because everyone is playing to win, but maybe brutal or vicious is the word he’s looking for – than this. He assists on a goal by Brett Hull in the second and comes back from his shift buzzing with excitement. Selanne slaps him on the back, says, “Good job, Paulie!” and Paul starts at the nickname. Selanne doesn’t even seem to have realized he’s done it. 

He scores later on in the period, close enough to the end that he’s still riding a high off it into the dressing room. Though they’re down by one point, the mood is light. Selanne grabs him around the neck, ruffling his hair before kissing him soundly on the top of his head. Paul wriggles free, laughing as Selanne shouts, “Did you see that? Did you _see that_?” and shoves at him before heading for his stall. 

Selanne scores the equalizer towards the end of the third, and it looks like that’s going to stand and maybe they’re going to be able to pull off the comeback, but with less than a minute left Ray Bourque scores the game winner. Paul can’t bring himself to be too upset, not when it’s in front of Bourque’s hometown crowd. He knows how he’d feel doing that in Anaheim. He’s only been there a short while, but Anaheim is his. 

“You’re coming out with us,” Selanne says once they’re dressed. He throws his arm around Paul’s shoulder and smiles. “Don’t think we’re going far. Too damn cold for that.”

“Even for you?” Paul asks. 

“Even Finnish people get cold.” Selanne slaps Paul on the back. “Come on, Paulie.”

“Why are you calling me that?” Paul asks, following Selanne out of the dressing room. “I don’t have a nickname.”

“Everyone has a nickname,” Selanne says. “I’m ‘The Finnish Flash’.” He glances back at Paul, grinning mischievously. 

“No one _calls_ you that, though,” Paul protests. 

“What do people call you, then?” 

“They call me Paul,” Paul says. 

“Boring,” Selanne says. “Come on, I want to buy you a beer. Or whatever it is you drink.”

Paul jogs to catch up with Selanne, apologizing when he clips Sundin in the arm. “So what do I call you, then?”

“Teemu’s fine,” he says, and he directs a smile at Paul, a little wry but amused and fond all at once. Paul stops in his tracks, staring at him, and doesn’t start moving again until Teemu says, “Are you coming?”

They go to a bar not far from the hotel, the kind of sports dive that Boston seems to be rife with from Paul’s experience. It’s fairly empty for a Saturday night, which Paul guesses is due to the weather. It’s bitterly cold outside and snow still lies thick on the curb. There’s been some talk of another storm coming in, and everyone is making noises about getting delayed on their way home. Paul, for his part, misses the snow. It had been odd being in California during Christmas, the air outside balmy as he opened the few presents he had. When he was young, he used to go out with his siblings and have vicious, knock-out snowball fights that inevitably ended in Noriko rubbing snow into someone’s faces before running off back to the house to crow about her victory. 

Paul sheds his coat and gloves once inside the bar and lets Teemu push him into a booth. Paul doesn’t know many people at the All-Star Game since he’s the only player from Anaheim and only knows most of the others by reputation and from playing against them. He lets Teemu make introductions, shakes hands when prompted, and nurses his beer while Teemu knocks back shots of vodka. After his third shot, Teemu drapes his arm over Paul’s shoulder and says in his ear, his breath warm and probably alcoholic enough to fell a small bird, “Tell me about yourself, Paulie.”

Paul hates talking about himself. It’s what he hated most about job interviews for summer jobs and it was easily the worst part of the draft experience. Everyone wanted to meet him and talk to him and find out about his family. Does he have a girlfriend? Why did he go to Maine instead of playing Major Junior? What was it like growing up the oldest of four? Is he close with his siblings? He can answer those questions now with some degree of sincerity, but he knows it’s not interesting. 

“Not much to tell,” Paul says, lifting his beer to his mouth. Teemu laughs, voice low, and dips his head against Paul’s shoulder. 

“I don’t believe that,” he says. “Tell me something.”

Paul considers for a moment, then turns to his right so he can see Teemu’s face better. “We watched your rookie year at school. We had a little party for your record-breaking game.”

Teemu laughs. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Paul smirks at him. “Where did you get the shooting the glove idea, anyway?”

“Oh, you know,” Teemu says. “Just an idea. I think it’s a good one, yes?”

“Definitely memorable.” Paul finishes his beer. “I’m gonna get another.”

“I’ll come with you.” Teemu stays close on Paul’s heels, warm against his back, and leans against the bar while Paul orders another Sam Adams. “Tell me something about _you_.”

Paul waits until the bartender finishes filling his glass, tips the bartender, and looks back at Teemu. “Like what?”

“Tell me a secret,” Teemu says. “Something you’ve never told anyone.”

Paul stares, but Teemu seems utterly serious. Paul sips at his beer, trails his finger around the rim of the glass, and thinks. He has a lot of secrets; it comes with the territory of being reserved, which he knows he is. Most of them are uninteresting, at least to him. The interesting ones he has no intention of sharing. “I don’t think I’ll ever get married.”

Teemu raises his eyebrows. “No? Why not?”

Paul shrugs. “How would I ever meet someone?” It’s true enough, never mind that he can’t get married. Down the road, he’ll reconsider his stance when California legalizes same-sex marriage, but it won’t change the fact that he never did find anyone. Paul isn’t like some of the other guys he knows who can’t seem to go more than two days without sex. He’s proud of his self-control, considers it an edge. He doesn’t have a girl – or, rather, a boy – in every port. He has himself and that should be enough. 

He had tried to start a relationship once in college, after he got up the courage to make a pass at one of the students in his science lecture. They spent a furtive, rushed half hour together in a private study room in the library, both of them too nervous to use their dorm rooms. After Paul had wiped his mouth and his classmate had jerked him off, they kissed once and briefly. _I’ll see you later_ , his classmate had said before leaving Paul to gather himself. The next game he played was the worst of his college career. The next time his classmate looked at him and asked, _Hang out later?_ Paul pretended he had a meeting with his adviser. His classmate never asked again.

Teemu shakes his head and signals the bartender. “Now need another drink,” he says, and he orders himself another shot. 

There's a cough over the speakers and they both look to see Jagr up at the front of the bar, a microphone before him. Jagr is grinning and shouting something in Czech to Hasek as thrumming guitar and drums start. Jagr leans in close to the mic and wails tunelessly as he mimes playing guitar. Teemu laughs and squeezes Paul's elbow.

"Can you believe this?" he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the loud cheers and whistles of the other players in the bar. 

"You should get up there," Paul suggests. He can picture it, Teemu's eyes closed with feeling as he croons into the mic. He wonders if Teemu can sing. 

"I'm good," Teemu says comfortably. He taps his fingers against the frosted glass of Paul's beer. "Back to the table?" 

Paul's spot has been usurped by Joe Sakic, so they take a table towards the back instead, small enough that their knees knock together as they sit. Teemu laughs, apologizes, and shifts so his back is to the wall and his legs are stretched out before him. His eyes are a little glassy, but he's not acting any differently than before. Paul envies him; he can feel the alcohol flush rising to his cheeks, and he’s grateful for the dim light. 

Jagr has been joined by Hamrlik, the two of them leaning into the mic and jostling for space, their singing turning into laughter. Jagr has pitched his voice an octave higher than usual, cracking every few words. In the morning they will both claim to have no memory of this, but when Paul passes Jagr at Logan, he'll catch him humming the melody under his breath. 

“I told you a secret,” Paul says, recalling Teemu’s attention back to him. “Tell me one.”

“I have no secrets,” Teemu says. “I am an open book.” He opens his hands as though holding a book. “Ask anything you want to know.”

“Do you miss Finland?” Paul asks after a moment of consideration.

Teemu replies that of course he misses Finland as up on the stage, Jagr and Hamrlik take their bows. He tells Paul about his brothers and the cold winters, how he misses hearing his language all around him, and the way the sky looks on a perfect clear night. Paul closes his eyes and lets Teemu paint a picture of still, icy lakes and a sky that never darkens in the summer. He drifts to the lull of Teemu’s voice, only coming back to himself when Teemu touches his arm and asks if he misses home too. 

“Not really,” Paul says.

It’s only partially true; Vancouver is home, of course, and when he returns for games there’s an ease to walking the streets that comes from familiarity. But home comes with expectations and obligations and worst of all, recognition. He went home briefly in the off-season to see his parents and begin the long task of repaying them for the money they spent on his hockey and college careers. He was stopped at the post office by someone who wanted an autograph and a photo. It was so shocking that Paul had reflexively said no, and then felt terrible when her face fell. He paid quickly for his stamps and left, embarrassed and confused. 

“Hey,” Teemu says, seeing that Paul’s glass is empty. “Let me get you another.”

“Oh, no, it’s all right –” Paul starts to protest, but Teemu is already up and on his way to the bar. Paul sits back in his seat and looks out over the bar. He catches the gaze of Gretzky, who is quietly observing the rest of the bar. Gretzky raises his glass in a salute. Paul nods back. 

Teemu returns with two beers. He slides one to Paul and grins at him. “You gonna get up and sing for us?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Paul says flatly. Teemu cracks up and punches his shoulder like he thinks Paul is kidding. 

“You have any hidden talents?” Teemu asks. 

“I can juggle,” Paul says. 

Teemu laughs again – he likes to laugh, it seems – and lifts up his glass to toast. “To coming in second but fighting hard.”

“First is better, but okay.” Paul clinks his glass against Teemu’s and drinks deeply, matching Teemu’s speed. When Teemu finally sets his glass down, he points at Paul. 

“This is the problem with Canada,” he says. “You try so hard for first and only first. There is no shame in coming second.”

Teemu says this now because he doesn’t know – neither of them know – how hard it will hurt Paul to lose in the Cup Final to the Devils in seven brutal games. Paul’s memories of that seventh game will never be clear, too rattled to be fully aware and too stubborn to admit to himself that he shouldn’t play. Sometimes he’ll be grateful for that, but most of the time he’s smart enough to know that he shouldn’t have gone back in game six. 

Teemu will come visit him in the summer after that season, favoring his knee, and will stroke Paul’s hair back from his face to inspect him. Paul will permit it because he is pathetically grateful for Teemu’s steady worry and affection, and will sit quietly while Teemu examines him until he’s satisfied. In the quietness of Paul’s house, it’s as though time has stopped; as though Teemu had never been traded the Sharks and they are, for a moment, twenty-one and twenty-five, with the world ahead of him. 

“Don’t scare me like that again,” Teemu will say, thumb pressing lightly to Paul’s temple. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t get up.”

Paul will close his eyes and nod. “I’ll try not to.”

It will be Teemu’s idea to go to Colorado. He will say, _I hated watching you in the Final without me_ , and _We’re supposed to win together_. And Paul will agree, because he knows that too. There are times – there will always be times – when Paul will half-look to his right and expect to see Teemu skating up the wing. And even though the Colorado experiment will end badly, with Paul’s name becoming a dirty word in Anaheim and Teemu further ruining his knees, Paul will never be able to regret having another year with Teemu. 

It never will be the two of them, not together, and Paul will watch Teemu lift the Cup on television, knowing it’s only a short drive away from his house. He will taste the metal on his lips when he closes his eyes; he will hear Teemu’s voice in his ear shouting, _Paulie, we did it!_ We _did it!_  
 __  
“It’s best to win, though,” Paul says.

Teemu shakes his head, almost exasperated. “Fine,” he says. “You are right, of course. Nothing is sweet like winning.”

Paul smirks down at his beer and takes a long sip. Up front, Chelios staggers to the mic, grinning, and cues up a song of twanging guitar. Teemu groans and throws his hand over his eyes. 

“You Canadians and your country,” he says. 

“Don’t blame me,” Paul says. “This isn’t my kind of music at all.”

“What do you like, then?” Teemu asks, peeking through his fingers. 

“Madonna,” Paul says, just to see how Teemu reacts. Teemu drops his hand and stares at him, narrow-eyed and suspicious. Paul lets his mouth twitch up just a little. 

“You should play poker,” Teemu says, prodding him in the arm. “I’ve never seen a poker face like yours.”

As the night goes on, the bar starts to empty out, the older guys saying goodnight before donning their coats to once again brave the chill outside. The karaoke machine comes down at midnight, and the bar noise drops to a steady murmur. Paul and Teemu migrate to the bar, both nursing beers. Paul knows he’ll regret it in the morning, but he doesn’t particularly want to go back to his hotel room yet. Hotel rooms are unnervingly confining and dulling, and they blur together until Paul forgets where he is and what day it is. He would rather sit here with Teemu, their knees pressed together beneath the lip of the bar, while Teemu talks about racing cars. 

“Can you really juggle?” Teemu asks suddenly, leaning on the bar and resting his chin on his hand. When Paul nods, Teemu gestures with his free hand. “Show me.”

“With what?” Paul asks. Teemu looks around, then gets the bartender’s attention. Paul shakes his head as Teemu asks for some lemons or limes. “If I mess up, it’s because I’ve been drinking.”

“Sure,” Teemu says, taking four limes from the bartender. “Good excuse.”

Paul takes the limes and slides off his bar stool to stand a little ways back. He settles himself, breathes in, and tosses the first lime in the air. He had spent a lot of time teaching himself with tennis balls during the lockout the previous year. If people asked, he told them it was to keep up his hand-eye coordination. The truth is that he always wanted to know how. His mom used to juggle apples when she thought they weren’t watching her, tossing them in a blurring ring before letting each one drop into their fruit bowl. With the unexpected free time, he taught himself, stubbornly persisting up in his billet room until he could do two, and then three, then four. 

It’s almost meditative, he finds, his mind calming as he narrows his focus to the soft thump of fruit into his palm. He juggles for a minute or so, then catches fruit in his hands. Teemu and the bartender applaud, laughing, and Paul’s face heats. He sets the limes back down on the bar and shrugs. 

“It’s a pretty useless talent,” he says. 

“That was awesome!” Teemu says. “Can you juggle anything else?”

“Not chainsaws or anything,” Paul says. “No, I don’t know. I haven’t tried much.”

“You should learn,” Teemu says, like it’s that easy. He picks up two of the limes and holds them out. “Now teach me.”

Paul laughs before realizing that Teemu’s serious. “Now?”

“Yes.” Teemu presses the limes into Paul’s hands. “I want to know.”

The limes end up on the floor more than in the air, Teemu laughing too hard at Paul’s inept instructions to focus. Paul slaps his knuckles lightly to scold him, and Teemu catches his fingers. Teemu’s hand is warm, rough, and Paul forgets what he was about to say, freezing in place. He looks up. Teemu isn’t smiling anymore; he looks thoughtful. His grip on Paul’s hand tightens.

“Hey, guys,” the bartender says, leaning over the bar. “We’re closing in a few minutes, you ready to close out your tab?”

“Yes,” Teemu says. He squeezes once around Paul’s fingers, then lets go and turns to take his card. Paul occupies himself with picking up the limes. The limes are probably not worth using now, but he returns them to the bartender before retrieving his coat. He waits for Teemu at the door, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His fingers feel warm where Teemu had touched him. 

“Fuck,” Teemu says as soon as they open the door. Paul has to agree, but he’s too busy tucking his chin into the collar of his coat to reply. It’s gotten even colder since they arrived at the bar, and snow is falling lightly, catching on Paul’s eyelashes and hair. He shivers, blinking flakes from his eyes. 

“Which way is the hotel?” he asks. Teemu points vaguely to his left. “All right.”

Paul walks quickly to keep the chill at bay, Teemu’s steps an off-tempo echo behind him. Their hotel is in sight and Paul is speeding up to get to the door and shelter from the cold when something hard and freezing hits him in the shoulder. He turns, snow falling from his back, to see Teemu grinning mischievously, hands tucked behind him. 

“Are you kidding?” Paul asks. Teemu pulls one hand from behind his back, showing Paul another snowball. “It’s freezing out here!”

Teemu’s grin widens. He lifts his hand. Paul shakes his head, backing up a step. 

“Don’t you dare,” he warns. 

Teemu flings the snowball at Paul. It catches him in the chin, some of the snow falling down his coat, and Paul throws himself at Teemu, catching around the waist and nearly toppling them over into the snow piled at the edge of the sidewalk. Teemu is laughing so hard he doesn’t even fight him, just clutches at Paul’s arms and leans into Paul’s chest. Paul grabs at some snow, grinds it into Teemu’s hair, lets some get down Teemu’s back in revenge for the snow currently melting inside his own shirt. Teemu grabs his wrist, holds it away, and looks down at Paul, still chuckling. 

“I like you, Paulie,” he says decisively. He lets go and runs his hand through his hair, knocking the snow loose. “You need to loosen up a little, I think, but I like you.”

“You’re all right,” Paul allows, smiling enough so Teemu can see he’s teasing. He starts to turn back towards the hotel, now more than ever wanting a hot shower and the warmth of the hotel comforter. 

Teemu says his name, catches the back of his coat. Paul looks back, about to ask what’s up until he sees the look of intent on Teemu’s face. He goes very hot, an odd shivery feeling in his chest. Teemu backs him up against the wall of the hotel, slow and deliberate. Paul doesn’t move away, heart pounding, gaze darting from Teemu’s mouth to his eyes. For the first time since college, he allows himself to want. 

“Hey,” Teemu says, smiling. His knee touches Paul’s thigh, and he strokes Paul’s hair back. Paul breathes in and half-closes his eyes, tilting his head up to meet Teemu’s lips with his own. 

Teemu kisses purposefully, seemingly testing Paul first with light, almost chaste touches. When Paul doesn’t stop him, Teemu cups Paul’s face in his hands and angles him for a deep, passionate kiss. Paul thumps back against the wall, grabbing for purchase on Teemu’s coat and pushing his hips up. He keeps his eyes open, studying the blurry vision of Teemu’s skin, the faintest hint of freckles beneath his eyes. He could devote a lifetime to a study of those faint freckles, he thinks. 

Teemu pulls back. He thumbs at Paul’s lower lip with one hand and taps his other against Paul’s temple. “Stop thinking,” he says. “I can hear you.”

“Sorry,” Paul says. He’s astonished by how rough his voice sounds. “I don’t do this often.”

Teemu kisses the corner of Paul’s eye, his cheek, the edge of his mouth. “You should,” he says. Paul is already leaning up, lips parted, and this time he closes his eyes as Teemu kisses him once again. 

Paul will never know how long it is they stand out there, sheltered from the snow by the hotel’s awning, the city still and quiet the way only winter brings. It seems to last forever and not long enough, a frozen moment where Paul puts aside his carefully maintained habits to let himself have one thing he desires that isn’t hockey. He knows, even as he kisses back and winds his arms around Teemu’s neck, that it can’t last. Paul isn’t someone who does anything casually, and he’s smarter than to get involved with another player. But he can pretend, for however long they stand there, that he’s the kind of person who might invite Teemu up to his bed, or call him when he’s in Winnipeg to meet for a few stolen hours. He can let Teemu kiss him, and he can let himself return the embrace because he wishes he could be that person.

He places his hand on Teemu's chest and pushes him away, as gently and apologetically as he know how. Teemu falls back a step. His breathing is rough, ragged, and he looks at Paul with his brow furrowed in confusion. There will come a time when Teemu offers himself to Paul again; when he will hold out his hand and ask again for Paul to give part of himself away. Paul, who has spent his life denying himself pleasure in pursuit of perfection, will have lost enough by then to see the wisdom in allowing himself to take what he wants. Teemu's love has always been freely and easily given. The same will never be true of Paul. 

“We shouldn’t,” Paul says. His voice sounds loud in the snowy silence. 

“Paul –”

“You know I’m right,” Paul says, sharp. His lips are still damp from Teemu’s tongue. “Good night, Teemu.”

In less than two weeks, Teemu will arrive in Anaheim with the essentials packed in two suitcases while the rest is packed by a service up in Winnipeg. He will be quiet and unhappy for the first few days, almost listless on the ice in practice and in his first games with the Ducks. Paul won’t know what to say to him. He will know it’s almost certainly partially his fault Teemu is in California and not Winnipeg. He will know that the praise he heaped on Teemu helped sway Jack towards trading for him. And he will be unsure how Teemu remembers their night in Boston, if he thinks on it with fondness or embarrassment. 

So Paul will be quiet around Teemu, letting him have his space. And then, after one particularly good practice where they see just how well they play together, Teemu will grab Paul around the neck and shake him gently. He’ll have that fond look in his eye Paul remembers from Boston, and for a moment he’ll be afraid he will have to reject Teemu again, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to. 

But all Teemu will say is, “We are a perfect match.” He will clap Paul on the back, grinning. “You and me,” he will say. “We’re going to win __together.”

For a moment Paul will imagine it: the crowd shouting, screaming in delight; Paul shaking the hand of the commissioner before taking the Cup; holding it triumphantly above his head and shouting in joy before turning to Teemu. Teemu is crying and laughing at the same time and when Paul hands him the Cup they’re close enough to kiss. When Teemu has skated around the rink, he returns to Paul and hugs him, face buried into his shoulder. They stand together, because that’s how it was always meant to be, as around them their team celebrates. Later there will be champagne and parties, but now it’s the two of them alone on the ice. 

“We’ll get there,” Paul will say. 

Boston is still and silent. The snow is falling thicker now, and Paul is starting to shiver. Teemu frowns, watching Paul. Paul wonders if this is it, if he’s burned this bridge to ash. Finally, Teemu sighs, breath clouding the air between them.

“Good night,” Teemu says, very quietly. Paul looks at him. Flakes of snow still glitter in Teemu’s hair. His mouth is red. Paul lets himself stare, committing the moment to memory; and then he turns and opens the door to the hotel. He doesn’t look back to see if Teemu follows.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Future Perfect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10651539) by [ofjustimagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofjustimagine/pseuds/ofjustimagine)




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